My Experience With Tedral

I've touched on this topic before (as you can see here), but it's worth revisiting. At the tender age of 5 or 6, I found myself prescribed a medicine called Tedral. To be honest, I had no idea that was the name of it back then. To me, it was simply a syrup mom grabbed out of the bathroom medicine cabinet. 

My memory is a bit fuzzy, but I believe it was a pink syrup. The nightly ritual unfolded in the bathroom, where Mom would open the medicine cabinet over the sink. From it emerged a small brown bottle of syrup, scooped onto a teaspoon and reluctantly consumed.

The taste was nothing short of horrendous.

Bedtime ushered in a different ordeal. Lying on the cusp of sleep, I would feel a peculiar sensation—paralysis. Staring at the ceiling, attempting to move, my body refused to respond. Panic would set in, an unsettling dance between wanting to move and the inability to do so. Eventually, the paralysis would relent.

Night after night, this pattern persisted, often following the administration of that syrupy concoction, Tedral. Gradually, I connected the dots, attributing the paralysis to the medicine. I attempted to communicate my distress to Mom, but as a child, my words may not have translated effectively. Despite my attempts, the nightly ritual continued.

Skipping a dose was never an option. Without it, the night air transformed into a formidable adversary, making each breath a struggle. Yet, during the quiet interlude between the fading allergies and the impending holiday season—somewhere after Thanksgiving and before Christmas—a different challenge emerged. A familiar, unwelcome companion—an all-encompassing depression.

This yearly pattern seemed tethered to a specific event. Annually, we were invited to K-mart for an exclusive sale reserved for those connected to an employee—in our case, Aunt Mary. As this event loomed, so did the impending depression.

As the years rolled by, a sense of dread enveloped me during this season. The depression would descend, and I found myself pacing the living room—a subtle coping mechanism, perhaps. Worries surfaced, ones I had no control over, like the vivid memory of my Great Grandpa's passing when I was merely six years old. The funeral brought forth the weighty concepts of life and death, thoughts that lingered, impossible to shake.

It took nearly three decades for the pieces to fall into place. The revelation came through the meticulous notes my mom had left in a picture book she made for me. It was then that I identified the medicine from that period as Tedral. Its composition included Theophylline for opening airways, Ephedrine for dilation, and a barbiturate—likely amobarbital. While uncertain about Ephedrine, my research revealed that ceasing both Theophylline and Amobarbital can trigger withdrawal symptoms, including depression.

The realization struck— the very medicine that aided my breathing might have unwittingly been the source of the recurring depression. My mom failed to recognize the signs. My doctor was therefore unaware of this. 

As I got older, perhaps 8, I was still taking this medicine. By this time I was old enough to take it on my own. Mom would have me start taking it early spring and to take it until summer was over, as doctor instructed. And I would do this. 

As I started connecting the dots between Tedral and the paralysis, I began occasionally skipping it when I felt good. It was during one of these moments that my parents took us (me and my four brothers) to a family reunion. Mom tucked us in for the night at the hotel, and that's when the trouble began. I started having difficulty breathing, and when she asked me to take my medicine, I found myself unable to communicate that I hadn't brought it—out of forgetfulness, not rebellion. I struggled to breathe throughout the night while Mom mingled with the adults. We stayed in a hotel, with one of my older cousins keeping an eye on us. I didn't share my stress with my brothers, who were having fun, but I was miserable.

Mom handed me a cough drop before she left, and in desperation, I placed it in my mouth, falling asleep with the horrible taste lingering. I woke up late at night, with everyone else fast asleep, finding the drop glued to my inside cheek. Peeling it off with my tongue, it left an impression—a reminder of that taste, indelibly etched in my mouth. Yet, this minor inconvenience paled in comparison to the chest tightness and shortness of breath.

By the next morning, my lungs felt calmer. Mom took us boys to the pool, cautioning me to be careful as she didn't want to trigger my asthma. I moved cautiously, confined to the edges of the shallow side, while wishing I could join my brothers in the water. I longed to swim or play freely, but I was forced to navigate the poolside, acting like the asthmatic I was.

That experience taught me never to forget my Tedral. Or, in this case, never to purposely leave it behind.

These were the echoes of my childhood nights—an intricate interplay between medicine, well-intentioned care, and the delicate landscape of childhood health.